Sometimes I write. This is a place for such times. Honestly writing doesn't come naturally to me. Nothing does actually. What I am passionate about is doing nothing in particular, thinking nothing in particular.

But sometimes I read. And sometimes I like it too. And I like reading what I write when sometimes I manage to. Perhaps that is why i write.

On how computers get hung up etc.

“See, it’s like this..”
she rolled over and faced him
and went on..
“its like fucking with a condom on.
You are not actually fucking me,
technically you are fucking the condom.”

“So, you don’t really live in this world.
You are not a part of this meaningless arrangement of things.
This playroom of an amnesiac God with an OCD.

You exist inside your own bubble.
You are a matrix of memories and songs and whispers and nostalgia
floating around inside this bubble.

But of course you interact with the world.
You can still see the aforementioned God at play.
(like I said, fucking with a condom on,
but fucking nonetheless.)
A born spectator.

So sit back and relax.
And don’t worry about taking God to a shrink.”

He nods.
Looks at a lump of air somewhere behind her head,
then asks, “and you? where do you live?”

She kept still.
Like a hung up computer.
He waited for her answer.

Still waits.

Korou Khundrakpam 3-11-09